


Almost Had Your Hooks In Me

by a_biting_smile (quickreaver)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Demon Dean Winchester, Other, gencest, pre-slash?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/a_biting_smile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Better the devil you know, hmm? Dean may be wearing black eyes these days, but that doesn't mean he's stopped...caring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Had Your Hooks In Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/profile)[**spnkink_meme**](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/). I didn't exactly follow [the prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/85765.html?thread=32714245#t32714245) to the letter, but suffice it to say, Dean is considering Sam's old addiction.

 

Sam looks like shit. He has for the past few weeks.

Dean lurks from the surrounding woods, leaning on a birch with his hands stuffed into his pockets, snapping a wad of gum. He watches as his brother rounds the Impala in front of the bunker, the pall of dusk painting Sam’s face fish-belly white. Sam’s clothes hang sloppy off his bones and his hair needs a cut...shaved off altogether, if Dean had his druthers

He’s not far away, dangerously close in fact, but he knows human eyesight isn’t nearly as fan-damn-tastic as a demon’s, and Sam’s clothes aren’t the only sloppy thing he’s rocking right now. Sam doesn’t even glance around to scope out the surroundings. He’s getting slack. From his bleary eyes and hollow cheeks, Dean guesses Sam’s been drinking instead of sleeping or eating. Doesn’t take much to wreck poor Sammy; he always was a fragile poppy.

And that kinda makes Dean grin wide. If he wanted, he could snap Sam’s neck with the flick of a wrist—break that poppy’s stem—or gut him in one stylish swipe of the First Blade, but what fun is that?

It’s not what Dean wants, anyway.

_It’s catching up with you, baby brother,_ Dean says to himself. There’s some big fat German word Sam had used once to describe this feeling, the feeling of being smug about someone else’s misfortune. Yeah, that one. Totally fits right now. _You’re falling apart. Without me to save your sorry ass, you’re coming unstrung like an old guitar. See, Sammy? How’s this workin’ for ya?_

Sam crawls the Impala down the gravel drive, the taillights fading into two pinpricks of red. Dean knows where Sam’s heading; he’s following the trial of breadcrumbs Dean set down three days ago. Sam needs to think it’s his own sleuthing, his own brilliant detective work that's leading him to JoJo's Drive-in, or he’d never go. Or maybe he might as some sort of death wish, but Dean doesn’t want to risk it. Fact is, he’s so sick and fucking tired of watching Sam dissolve, becoming more of a ghost with every passing voyeuristic glance, that Dean still toys with the idea of just jumping him, swiping an edge across his Sam's throat and dancing as the blood spills. Give his brother what he thinks he deserves.

But that’s not really what Dean wants.

Anyway.

 

 

-_-_-_-_-

 

 

Dean is waiting for Sam at JoJo’s in Topeka, feels a prick of thrill when he hears the Impala’s rumble from down the block. The drive-in diner has a handful of customers under the carport and another handful in the restaurant proper. The evening is mild and there are fireflies in the trees, nostalgia in the air.

He waits until the engine shuts off before he strolls from around the building, all casual-like, a double-cheeseburger in one hand, strawberry shake in the other. Food has been optional since the ol’ black eyes showed up, but rumor had it that JoJo’s was legendary for their double-cheeseburgers. Truth in advertising; the burger is damned good. Dean doesn’t look toward the car or Sam, plays at being oblivious, but he feels Sam’s eyes on him intuitively, can almost hear Sam’s pulse ratchet up. Sam’s very existence thrums through Dean’s nervous system in a low-voltage hum, different from other people, other humans. Maybe it’s the foul residual grace Gadreel left behind, like a slime trail, but Dean’s banking on it being something else. Something nefarious and frankly, awesome.

Gnats and moths bounce off the big round lights under the carport, and Dean pauses, biting back a smile before turning to look at the black Chevy at the far end of the line.

Baby’s lounging there, gleaming like an oil slick, but the front seat is empty.

He feels a jab in his back and it nearly makes him snort.

“Heya, Sammy. That a gun in your pocket or you just glad to see me?”

He hears Sam take a deep breath. “Guess I don’t need to tell you my bullets have devil’s traps carved into ‘em, huh.” He doesn’t sound so hot, either. Little stressed out.

“Nope. But good on ya for greasing the car doors. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“Been needing it for years.”

“Yep. You didn’t douche up the stereo, did you?”

“Haven’t exactly felt like it, Dean. Bigger fish to fry. You know.”

“Fair enough. I’m gonna turn around now, Sam. Real slow. No sense in making a scene.” Dean knows Sam won’t shoot him in front of all these civilians or risk collateral damage. A conscience can be handy sometimes, especially if it’s not yours.

Up close, Sam looks even worse. Shallow-skinned, blood vessels raised against gristle. Week’s worth of beard. Dean almost feels guilt, but decides it’s just pity. And maybe a touch of want. There’s a solution to this, an easy solution, but Sam won’t go along with it, big fucking boyscout that he is.

Dean gestures with his drink to a nearby picnic table and ambles that way cautiously, half an eye on Sam all the while. Sam follows, one hand still in his coat pocket.

“How’d you find me?” Dean asks around a bite of burger.

Sam sits down on the opposite side, his gun surely aimed at Dean’s groin under the table. Gives Dean a little bit of a hard-on, to be honest. Sam doesn’t say anything, though, just stares, his blood-shot eyes boring into Dean’s face, watching him eat. Like he’s trying to find something he recognizes in the mundane activity, but isn’t really buying any of it. Dean offers him the burger and Sam just blinks once, long and slow.

“Suit yourself.” Dean shrugs and takes a slurp of shake. “You look like shit, Sam.” He's been thinking it for weeks; why not just put it out there?

“What do you care.”

Dean pauses, narrows his eyes. “Cut me some slack here, will you? Just because I fucking _died_ and came back ‘wrong’, doesn’t mean I wanna see you self-fucking-destruct, okay? Fuck.”

The soccer mom at a nearby table with her 2.5 kids looks sideways at Dean’s string of f-bombs, but Dean couldn’t give 2.5 shits about it.

“Sorry,” comes Sam’s mumbled reply. Maybe he looks contrite, maybe he doesn’t. Dean can’t tell anymore. Sam slouches there, watching, his face a stupid enigma of weary eyes, stubborn jaw, and faint lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there before. It’s such a God-damned waste, literally, all this head-butting and ‘fighting the good fight’; Dean realizes this now, more clearly than ever. Sam is sitting right across from him but still feels worlds away, little more than a sliver of the man Dean used to know, as wavering as heat vapors off a tarmac in August.

All Dean’s new and wanton freedom, the release from expectations—it means nothing under Sam’s disapproving stare. Hell is chock full of souls to toy with, other demons and hell hounds and devils, oh my. And Dean has never felt so fucking alone.

He pops the last of the burger into his mouth and pushes the shake towards Sam.

“They use real strawberries.” Dean bounces his brows.

Sam doesn’t move, except to dart a glance to the cup and back again.

Dean makes a point of wilting visibly. “Why’re you doing this to yourself, Sam? I mean, come on. Look at me. Do I look unhappy? Huh? Do I look like the lifestyle ain’t agreeing with me?”

Sam sits up a little straighter, seems to pay the slightest bit more attention to what Dean’s saying instead of leveling a gun at his junk. Fact is, Dean knows he looks damned good, sitting squarely in his prime and burning hot with hellfire, and there’s no way Sam can deny it.

So he worms through that opening, icepick-sneaky and smooth as high-grade motor oil. “Hell, you tried, man, I know. _I know._ I felt it. They all did, every last fucking freak in Crowley’s fancy gated community. Truth? When you started working that voudon? Every loa south of Purgatory shit their pants, no lie.” Dean leans forward, grinning with all his teeth. “You almost had me that time. Almost got your hooks in me. You were this close.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger a scant quarter-inch apart, one eye pinching shut. A nerve in Sam’s cheek jumps.

Dean lets that little revelation wheedle its way under Sam’s skin, lets it bore in there like a maggot until Dean sees Sam’s eyes get glassy. Sam draws his hand out of his pocket and sets it on the picnic table, fingers lax.

“Point is, little brother, you tried. You tried so fucking hard. But some things...” Dean shrugs, clucks his tongue. “Some things just ain’t doable, and no amount of mule-headed stubborn or Men of Letters mojo can make it happen. And that’s not on you—”

“It is on me.” Sam mumbles.

“No.” Dean grabs Sam’s hand, holds firm. “Enough of that shit. We ain’t talkin’ blame here, ‘cause there’s plenty of that to spread around and it’ll do nothin’ to solve nothin’. We’re talking moving forward from this spot, this fucked up place we’ve gotten to. I’m cool; now you’ve gotta be, too.” Dean lets desperation pick at the edges of his voice. “You gotta be, Sammy. So start takin’ care of yourself. Stop this self-abuse crap. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Dean slowly releases Sam’s hand but doesn’t ease back. “Now, if you’re not gonna finish that shake—”

“No, no. I...will.” Sam smiles wanly, pulling the Styrofoam cup closer by the lip and takes a taste, if only because Dean wants him to.

“See? Didn’t kill you, did it?”

Sam shrugs, sips a second time and sets the cup down. His forehead creases again and he gets the patented dog-with-a-bone expression that’s almost become his trademark. "But you can't stay like this, Dean. You can't. This...this is a deal-breaker."

"Why? Because you say so?"

"Because it's wrong," Sam insists. "You said it yourself!"

"But what if we can't change this, huh?" Dean leans closer, one palm flat to the table. "What if this is the only way we can do this?"

Sam huffs, incredulous, a hit of red washing across his cheekbones. "What are you saying? That Crowley’s _won?_ That you're letting the asshole call the shots now? Seriously, Dean. You're giving up?"

"No. I'm giving in."

"W-what?"

"Listen. Just pump the brakes for a second. What if we make a shit-ton of lemonade, here? This situation sucks huge balls, no question, but it’s not a done deal. What if we let Crowley think he's got it all in the bag, but see... _he doesn't_. Because you and me, we work together on this, right?" Dean's lips quirk, something tiny and hopeful. "The dick lets his guard down, and that's all we need—"

"Need for what?"

"To kick his ass, is what."

"Like 'we' did with Abaddon? Or Metatron?"

"Okay, okay, those were mistakes. Big, epic, massive mistakes. I fucked up and I should never, _never_ have cut you out like that." Dean reaches for the shake but Sam snatches it back, scowling. Sam's body knows what his brain hasn't caught up to yet, and Dean's grin turns bright. "But we can do this, Sam. You, me, us."

Sam wants to believe Dean so bad, it's all over his face. The stubbornness softens to mournful brows, pressed lips. Dean glances around, waves his fingers at a girl in an apron and a badge that reads 'Taylor' in swirly letters.

"Honey, can I steal a pen from you?"

"'Course," she says brightly, and gives him a generic red ball-point.

Dean winks and she blushes, right on cue. He turns back to Sam and grabs his hand; before he can protest, Dean flips it over and begins to draw on Sam's big palm, over the life line, heart line, all of it—a circle, and within that, carefully rendered symbols, not particularly artful but precise. Sam's fingers twitch then stretch, open and compliant.

"That's me," Dean says.

Sam's not even looking at the sigil, but straight at Dean's face. He's searching for signs of deceit, of a ruse. But in this smallest moment, in this tenuously drifting piece of time, there is none of that, not one flyspeck.

Dean lets loose of Sam's hand, letting his fingertips brush over Sam's wrist where the fine blue trails of veins sit so close to the skin. "Now you can summon me."

And if that isn't trust, Dean doesn't know what is.

He doesn’t want to blip out, but he must. He vanishes on a waft of vaguely brimstone-scented air, leaving the pen to drop onto the picnic table. The next move is Sam’s, it has to be. It’s the only way this will work.

Which is exactly what Dean wants. For now, anyway.

 

 

-_-_-_-_-

 

 

Dean’s leaning on his favorite birch again. The morning is damp and misty, smelling of rich, rotting leaves. The bunker door creaks open, finally, and Sam steps out. In running gear.

_In running gear._

Sam runs to cope, always has. He ran to cope with their father’s militant training tactics; ran track at Stanford—Dean assumes to cope with the pressures of getting good enough grades to keep the scholarship; ran every time they settled down in one place long enough to make room for it. He ran when Dean had been blown into smithereens and Purgatory. Sam runs, it’s what he does, literally and metaphorically. But he hadn’t gone running a single day since Dean’s death. He’d stopped the day Dean died. Stasis. No coping, no dealing.

A small black piece of Dean is smug about that.

So he watches as Sam takes a few minutes to stretch before loping off down the gravel drive, hair bouncing, breath fogging in the chill, and Dean feels even more smug this time around.

By mid-day tomorrow, Sam will be jittery and nauseous, and he won’t know why. He might briefly consider that it feels like withdrawal—the twitching fingers, sweats, headaches. He might think it’s a stomach bug coming on, something he ate, especially the next day when he starts puking out his guts. But the day after, when it’s worse yet with hallucinations and tremors and full-body cravings so hard they hurt, he’ll pull it all together and it’ll be too late.

Because Dean isn’t your average demon, no sir. Crowley and Cain had made good and fucking sure of that. Dean is something mighty and grim, a most terrible fiend, even by Hell’s standards, and there was enough of Dean in that strawberry milkshake to send Sam deep into the throes of addiction.

By day three, Dean feels the pull of a summoning. It’s weak, poorly done. He could fight it if he wants, but he doesn’t.

He allows the strange suction to pull him through time and space, colors smearing and his ears popping, until he recognizes the basement of the bunker. The room with the devil’s trap painted on the ceiling and the reinforced walls, soaked in brine.

At first he doesn’t see Sam, but he hears him. Wheezing, teeth chattering. Dean slowly turns around in his cozy little invisible cell, his gaze dragging through the shadows. A ceremonial bowl smolders on the floor, giving up the last of its components to the air. Sam is sitting on his heels, watching, eyes full of seething hurt.

“Why?” is all he says.

Fucking stupid question, really. Sam knows why. Better question is: why not? Dean simply lets his eyes tick black and shrugs. _It’s what I do, Sam. Take care of you. Of us._

Sam rocks back on his ass, slumps against the wall. The posture throws his face into the dark, but Dean can see through the gloom as clear as glass. He’s crying, Sam is. Gritting his teeth to stay quiet, but tears and sweat roll down his face, and the tips of his hair shudder with droplets. The want oozes from his pores.

Dean sits down, crossed-legged, and settles in to wait. It’ll get worse before it gets better. If Sam’s smart, he’ll leave and detox far, far away from his drug. Twenty minutes later though, Sam is still there, scratching at his arms, his t-shirt plastered wetly to his chest. Because Dean knows damned well that Sam doesn’t want to leave. He wants Dean to see how much damage he’s wrought, but what Sam doesn’t get is that this isn’t _damage_ ; this is deconstruction. There’s a fuck-ton of difference. Deconstruction is breaking something—someone—down in order to rebuild him from those raw components into a better machine. It’s unlearning bad habits. It’s a second, third, fourth, chance.

But more than that, for Dean, it’s communion. It’s listening to a machine and fine-tuning the performance, putting just a little bit of his soul into it until there’s not a thing he doesn’t understand about it, not a thing he couldn’t make it do. And the engine will purr for him, run like a champ, give and give again.

Gradually, Sam’s heels slide across the floor until his legs are splayed out in front of him, boneless. His chin drops to his chest and his breath regulates into measured huffs. The sameness of it catches Dean’s attention.

“Sam. Sammy.”

Nothing. He’s out cold, asleep, though he’s still trembling. Dean can feel the fever in Sam’s system, even fifteen feet away.

Dean stands up and reaches behind his back. He’s not quite sure how it works, but the First Blade appears in his hand, despite the devil’s trap. Probably has something to do with the artifact existing in both Hell and on Earth at once. He doesn’t think much on it, just knows that it works. The weapon _talks_ to him, after all; it’s probably more creature than inanimate object. Dean raises the tip of the Blade towards the ceiling but even on the balls of his feet, he can’t reach the sigil. Close, but no cigar. Maybe if he jumped...but there’s a more entertaining way.

Plan B.

Rolling up a shirtsleeve, Dean drags the sharpened bone across his forearm. The skin parts eagerly for the Blade and blood rolls out in a thick spill. He switches the weapon to his other hand and sops his fingertips in red. Sam stirs as the smell lifts into the room. Dean flicks his fingers. The blood is heavy and almost opaque; it plunks onto the bottoms of Sam’s boots. A harder flick, and drops spatter his chest, his cheek.

Sam’s eyes fly open, spooked-horse wild. His gulps down air like a drowning man.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Dean says. “Time to talk.”

Sam shakes his head so hard, he almost hurts himself.

“Alrighty, then. You listen. I’ll talk.” Dean causally flips the Blade in his hands, his blood hitting the floor in audible glops. What does he care? It’s not like he can bleed out.

“I know this seems shitty and cruel, but really, it’s not. Think about it, Sam. Think about how much we’ve sacrificed. How much we’ve given up and lost and done without.” Dean stops fiddling and quirks a brow. “The universe owes us a thing or two, wouldn’t ya say?”

“N-not this, Dean. Please.” Sam can barely pull the words out.

Something mean and spoiled rolls up in Dean’s chest cavity, crawls up his esophagus and makes his lip curl. “Why?” he snaps. “Why shouldn’t we get what we want? One. Fucking. Time. And you can’t tell me you don’t _want_ , Sam. ‘Cause I can feel it from here, little brother. I can.”

Sam drags up the wall, swaying to his feet. Dean can see his ribcage heaving with the effort of breathing, and Dean tugs the line. Reels him in.

“Blood calls to blood. We were built for this. Can’t you feel it?” Dean thumps his own chest and leaves a huge bloody fistmark on his white t-shirt, right over his heart. “I sure as hell do. It’s like...like this buzz, right _here_. And behind my eyes and the back of my throat. Shit, if I can feel it, Sammy, you must be...” Dean trails off because Sam has started moving again. Just two stumbles, but many a journey begins that way.

Sam kicks over the ritual bowl and the sound is over-loud, careening off the hard walls. Another step.

Dean flips the Blade around and holds it by the sharp edge, presenting the handle to Sam. Dean can’t reach beyond the confines of the devil’s trap, but he won’t need to. Sam reaches in, his fingers trembling so badly, he can barely grip.

The Blade shrieks in Dean’s brain _kill kill kill kill_ , but Dean tells it to have faith and patience, cool its fucking jets, that this is the better way—that it won’t go hungry for long. Best to wait for the banquet than to lick at crumbs.

The Mark on Dean’s arm burns for a moment when Sam grips the big knife. Sam stares at it numbly, knuckles white and tendons strung. Dean draws his hand away, releasing the weight of it. Then Sam raises the Blade, reaching to the fullest extent of his height, and scrapes a gouge through the painted circle on the ceiling.

The pressure escapes in a gust, but it’s Sam who topples. Dean catches him before he hits the floor. Sam is slick with sweat and hot to the touch, all floppy limbs and heavy muscle and bone, but Dean hoists him effortlessly. Sam sags. A moan escapes him, though it’s clear he’s trying so very hard to keep control, teeth bared, eyes squeezed tight.

Dean cradles the back of Sam’s head with one palm, presses his lips to Sam’s temple. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs. Thick blood trails down his forearm and mixes with Sam’s sweat, and before Dean can hush more sweet nothings, Sam breaks.

He snaps his dull teeth onto the wound and it hurts more than Dean expects. He also feels it in his cock...not something he would admit to or relish under more _human_ circumstances, but there is no unringing this bell, and his old woeful humanity is the furthest thing from his mind these days.

Sam sucks at the wound, and Dean feels sharp fingers digging into his back, waist, wherever Sam can grab. There’ll be bruises for maybe ten minutes, until Dean’s body heals, on autopilot. Sam can take his fill; Dean will give it. Dean ruts in micro-movements, rocks with Sam as he swallows and prods his tongue, as coarse as a cat’s, into the gash. Dean’s getting so hard he aches, and he shifts to slide his dick up along the lean length of Sam’s thigh. They’re tangled together in mutual want, Dean grunting to Sam’s wet noises, until Sam seems to click back into cognizance. Maybe he’s had enough blood to calm the beast, maybe he finally noticed Dean was grinding into him. Either way, Sam wrenches free. He trips back, gasping. He’s thunderstruck, the poor fool, finally figuring out what hit him.

“What did you...make me...” Sam’s grimacing red all over his teeth.

Dean pointedly adjusts himself and snorts. “You were already heading to the grave, Sammy. Don’t blame the new hearse.”

Sam roars. He bellows and charges. There’s no time for Dean to square his chest or get his feet set; Sam hits him like an earthquake and hauls him up, bull-rushing until Dean’s back slams a wall and his skull whacks against the cinderblock.

The First Blade is pressing into Dean’s throat. He almost laughs.

The Mark blazes like a fresh hot brand and the Blade chitters madly. Sam’s nostrils are flaring, and he’s not looking at Dean; it’s like he _can’t_. Dean knows his tainted blood is staining its way through Sam’s system, through the skin and sinew, vessels and cells until finally, it will find the soul—that pretty, shiny thing Sam didn’t used to want, once upon a time, but now is so fiercely proud of.

Sam’s panting and grinding his teeth—the Blade stings at Dean’s Adam’s apple—and then it all slots into place. Just like that. Sam blinks. His breathing begins to settle, one drag after the next, and the fury fades from his expression.

Dean waits a few seconds more and feels himself start to grin. If he has to be honest, he’s almost giddy. Horny and giddy. “Sam. Look at me, bitch,” he says softly, amused with himself. And Sam does, sloe-eyed, numb.

Sam creeps his head down, hesitates. He nuzzles experimentally, nose to cheek, before pressing his sticky, soft lips against Dean’s. It’s almost coy, the way Sam’s tongue nudges at Dean’s teeth, coaxes its way inside. Sam’s breath is overly warm and tinged with metal, salt. Maybe a little whiskey. Dean opens up and lets him in. The Blade slips harmlessly away from Dean’s throat and Dean reaches up to grab a fistful of Sam’s dank hair.

Then Sam snaps his teeth down on Dean’s bottom lip, biting until blood pools into their mouths. Dean grunts in pain but the shock is short-lived; he knows the little son of a bitch is smiling.

Sam pulls back and spits. He pushes off Dean’s chest and throws the Blade to the floor.

“Jerk,” he says coolly.

_Oh._

Dean drags a sleeve across his sore, bleeding mouth and decides, yes, this is exactly, precisely what he wants.

_It is **so** on._


End file.
